


Verse Falls to Soul

by samescenes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Jess Lives, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, feelings of frustration for a fridged and forgotten character, feelings of nostalgia for fic written circa 2006, life-altering events in shitty motel rooms, sam's the fucking worst and yet?, should definitely not be used as a starter polyamory guide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10052585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samescenes/pseuds/samescenes
Summary: They think you don’t know, at first. They think you don’t see Sam pushing his brother against the car, hot black chrome against Dean’s back while you peek out from behind the curtain of your motel room.~a Jess Lives AU. Going on the road with the brothers, getting involved with their sexual shenanigans despite smart money pointing toward a disaster. Well, Jess used to be smart. Now she's dangerous.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even go here! *jazz hands*
> 
> Set during that S1-2 heyday of not really knowing what the fuck was about to go down.

He’s not the Sam you knew. He leaves knives under your pillow, sheets of Latin next to your greasy containers of fast food, and he greets his brother with wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave a burn between your thighs. 

They think you don’t know, at first. They think you don’t see Sam pushing his brother against the car, hot black chrome against Dean’s back while you peek out from behind the curtain of your motel room. 

They think you can’t hear when Dean whispers _please please i missed you_ against the razor of Sam’s hip, but you know the sounds Sam makes when there’s a mouth on his cock.

Even though it’s your bed he crawls into at the end of the night, calling _jessie jessie jess_ into your ear as his fingers trace your cunt, you don’t think you’re winning.

////

Ah, but Dean: Dean is another thing all together, a piece of satin in a hurricane, smooth and silky and provocative and an absolute mess. He blows you a kiss when you lose at pool, and this is another way you've changed: you smile back when you may not have before, when you didn't have time for flirty men with Peter Pan syndrome.

He stands too close when he teaches you to shoot, his palms sweaty where they grip yours, showing you how to position your fingers. Your boy is sitting a few feet away, sharpening his favorite knife on a whetstone, and the first time you hit a bullseye, Dean’s hands take too long to fall from your hips. His chin rests on your shoulder, and he breathes _good job, jessie_ into your ear. It’s the first time he’s called you by that name.

////

Dean’s not one for human contact, but sometimes you’ll see it out of the corner of your eye.

A flash of Dean’s hand on Sam’s hipbone, one finger against the warm skin underneath Sam’s t-shirt. You know what his skin feels like there, the smooth flesh pulled taunt by muscle, and you hate that Dean knows too. 

Most of the time, Dean doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. But sometimes, he’ll catch you staring, and he’ll drop his hand to his side, clenching it uselessly into a fist.

Sam still comes into your bed most nights. You press your palms over where Dean laid his hands, and sometimes you let him fuck you, but sometimes you get suddenly, disconsolately sad. Sometimes you kiss him on the temple, brush his hair back behind his ears, and go to sleep with an arm across his chest. Sometimes you want to talk about how your lives used to be, but Sam’s eyes go tight at the corners and you realise: this is how Sam’s life used to be.

You love Sam, so much, but you don’t know if you can share.

////

It’s a Black Dog in Wisconsin that puts Sam down. You’re left with blood running down your arm, a smoking gun in your hands, and the Dog’s last exhale of fetid breath clogging your throat.

The Black Dog whines, shudders, goes limp, and you scream as you tear its teeth from your shoulder.

Dean is standing over Sam’s prone body. “Help me get him into the car,” Dean snaps, but you stand frozen until Dean’s botched attempt at lifting Sam by himself causes Sam to fall heavily on the ground.

By the time you and Dean carry Sam from the Impala into the motel room, he’s barely regained consciousness, moaning as you maneuver him through the door.

Dean lays him face-down on the bed, strokes a finger down Sam’s back and into the wound. Sam passes out again.

“Hasn't touched the spine,” Dean says, his mouth a grim straight line. His freckles stand out on his pale skin.

You don’t need to be asked. You boil the water, set out the needle and thread, hand Dean the motel towels. The red blooms into the white, a crimson ink blot on a waxen piece of cardboard, and you almost expect Dean to hold up a shape and say _what does this look like to you?_

You get sicker every time you pour a bowl of bloody water down the sink.

You collapse the second after Dean puts down the needle.

////

When you wake, Dean’s sitting over you, a hand soothing your hair away from your face. You’re sweating, burning up, and it’s too hot, there’s too many blankets, but trying to struggle out of them is like trying to swim through cotton.

 _shhhh, shhhhh,_ you hear. _don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear me? never._

His lips are cool against your forehead.

////

When you wake again, Dean’s propped up in Sam’s bed, watching the infomercial channel on mute.

Sam’s still asleep, deathly pale, and for a moment you’re scared it’s more serious than you thought. 

Dean looks over and smiles. “He’s already woken up for a little bit. I gave him some soup, and he dropped right off again.” He nods towards the pills on the nightstand next to your bed, and you grasp at them with clumsy and uncooperative hands. You hiss when you rotate your shoulder, and look down at the bandage that’s covering your upper arm.

“You still have a serious risk of infection.” Dean sounds like he’s trying too hard to be nonchalant. "God knows what's been in that thing's mouth."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed; swallow the pills as you haul yourself into the bathroom to piss.

You finger the scar dissecting your stomach. “I’ve had worse,” you say.

////

It’s Sam that teaches you hand-to-hand. You’re tall for a girl, almost as tall as Dean, and Sam teaches you how to use it, how to lash out with a closed fist, or with your fingers curled intimately around a blade.

You had wondered about him, spent hours teasing him about his family – Russian KGB spies or exiled circus folk from Utah – but you never imagined this, wouldn’t have believed it even if he told you. But then you got pinned to the ceiling by a man with yellow eyes, and you really don’t have an excuse for denial now.

Usually Sam’s good enough to stop whenever you don’t block or parry his thrusts. But one time he overestimates, cuts you deep, and Dean props you up as Sam wraps a bandage around your arm with shaking hands. Dean’s chest is warm against your back.

You’re getting quite a collection of scars.

That night he doesn’t go to Dean at all, he curves around you in the king-sized bed, his hand pressed tightly into your stomach.

You try to feel triumphant as you think of Dean in the other room, alone among the soiled sheets, but you know what it feels like to be the one on the other side of the wall. Sam’s fingers squirm past the waistband of your boxer shorts, murmuring _jessie jessie jess_ into the shell of your ear. You slap them away, but his wounded noise hurts you, so you reach back, tangling your fingers together and resting them just below your breasts. You can't help it. You love him, you do, you do, but his skin is hot like a brand, like betrayal, where it touches yours. He doesn’t belong to you anymore.

////

You thought there’d be a build-up to when you finally kissed Dean. You thought you’d be drunk, or dying, or under a curse that made you do it. You thought something would happen to strike you down for your infidelity – and you think it’s funny you still think of it that way. After all, Sam hasn’t shown you the same respect. You know there’s got to be consequences – that’s what you were taught. Bad deeds always catch up to you in the end, but you’ve had to relearn a whole new life with the Winchesters and you’re not sure the same rules apply.

You didn’t think it’d happen when Sam went inside to pay for gas, and it's almost a hundred degrees and your thighs slide around on the leather seats, and something snaps in your chest where your heart used to be, and you lean forward from the backseat to press your lips against his. You then settle back into your seat, a small smile flitting across your mouth.

Dean smirks, and you think for a second he’s about to say something smart, callous or downright insulting, but you catch sight of Sam walking back across the dirty concrete.

He just faces the front, buckles his seatbelt, and turns Blue Oyster Cult up loud when Sam gets back into the car.

He knows it’s your favorite of all his tapes.

////

But when you kiss him for the second time, you are a little bit drunk.

Dean unlocks your room for you because you spent too long fumbling for the right key. He laughs in that irritating, easygoing way of his, and follows you through the doorway with his hand on the small of your back.

As soon as you’re through, you whirl around and pin him to the wall, crushing your lips to his. His head hits the wall with a satisfying _thump_ , and you can feel the imprint of your teeth inside your lips.

Sam steps into your peripheral vision, and you can hear him gasp. Dean pushes you away.

“What,” you spit, “don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but a man’s? Don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but your _brother’s_?”

Sam starts forward, you can hear his breath hitching in his chest. _jessie_ , he says, but he stops. He goes to take your arm, but you wrench it away. Suddenly, you feel like crying, you feel like collapsing on the floor and letting the world become someone else’s problem.

“I would like it,” you say, and your voice only shakes a little, “if you both left now.”

Dean leaves immediately. You think he murmurs something to Sam on his way past, but you don’t catch it.

You turn your back on Sam before he can do the same to you, and you crawl into bed fully clothed.

You don’t hear anything through the wall that night.

////

 _i’m sorry_ , you say to Dean the next morning, a coffee cup in one hand and peanut M&Ms in the other. You hand them both over.

He nods, and you don’t say anything to Sam at all. 

////

You manage to avoid the confrontation for longer than you thought you could. 

_no chick flick moments, hey jessie,_ Dean winks. But his mouth is sewn in a straight line from the effort of keeping himself on eggshells. 

One day, all three of you are in the library researching a case that’s bound to uncover an ancient Indian burial ground – it’s always an ancient burial ground – and you look up and Dean’s gone.

Sam’s sitting opposite you, his knees only a whisper away from yours. You can feel the air they displace every time he shifts. He looks lost, his cheeks drawn tight and shadows under his eyes, and he looks so much like he did when you first met him, a lonely boy on his first trip from home. For a moment, he looks so much like _your boy_ that your heart aches a little for all he’d ever lost.

“Jess, I’m sorry,” he says, broken. His palms are splayed open over the tabletop, resting on the copies of old newspapers.

_no chick flick moments,_ you hear Dean say in your head.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t make me choose.”

You punch him in the nose.

 _it’s not that, you asshole,_ you want to scream. You can see the civilians – _civilians_ , this is what they've turned you into – ducking between the bookshelves, staring at Sam with his hands clapped over his face. _you could have told me there was someone else. when you fucked me in our bed – were you thinking of him? did you ever love me at all?_

But that’s not what you say.

“Maybe you don’t have to,” you tell him, right before turning on your heel and walking out of the place. You wonder how he feels about sharing.

////

It’s Dean who makes the first move after that, no matter how disguised.

It’s just you and him, sitting on the ancient lawn chairs outside your adjoining motel rooms. Sam is asleep in Dean's room, one with two singles. You’re both watching the sunset, but there is too much fog for the sky to be anything other than a darkening shade of grey-blue. It's cold; time has passed you by. How long have you been with them now? Does it matter?

“You know, I kinda like you, Jessica Moore,” Dean hedges, like he’s twenty-seven and never learnt how to speak to a woman.

“I kinda like you too, Dean Winchester.”

////

The third time you kiss Dean Winchester, he’s right in the middle of asking _you sure?-_ , when you clap your lips to his. His lips are plush, like you knew they would be, and you take more than what you’re given, because if you’re just going to be another name on Dean’s list of abandoned women, then by God, you are going to enjoy yourself.

Dean makes a surprised sound, his hands automatically framing your hips, and it takes him a few seconds to grip you tighter and press himself against you. You swallow whatever he'd been about to say, too impatient, too angry, too _tired_. You are done with words - Sam's too silken, Dean's too true.

Dean pushes you backward until you hit warm flesh, and then Sam’s mouthing at your jawbone, taking the lobe of your ear into his mouth and tugging gently. You’re frozen between them, your chest heaving as Sam’s hands roughly cup your breasts, tripping down to the hem of your singlet top where his fingers bunch the material, pushing it up over your chest, over your head, so your breasts fall free.

Dean immediately releases your lips, kissing down the line of your throat. He take your nipples between his teeth, leaving them hard and sensitive before he goes to his knees, his nose pressed under your belly as he fumbles with the belt on your jeans.

Sam rumbles in your ear, _you should see what he can do with his tongue, jessie. he’ll make you pant ‘til you can’t breathe, he’ll make your pussy drip all over the sheets, won’t let you come ‘til you scream._

Dean groans below you, he’s already got your zipper undone and you help him peel off your jeans, flinging them into a corner.

Sam’s fingers dive down, combing through the dark hair at the top of your thighs, peeling you open so Dean can lick a stripe up the center of you. One hand at your cunt, one at your hip, he holds you steady so Dean can smear your slick over his chin, his mouth grinning obscenely.

 _fuck, he loves it,_ Sam whispers, and you wonder if they've done this before, with another girl, and if they'd even tell you if you ask. Sam's fingers tighten on your hip so hard you hope there’ll be bruises in the morning, small blue-black marks spread over your skin so you won’t forget the rush.

You can feel Sam shifting at your back, rubbing himself over you, small movements like he can’t help himself, and he groans as you shift backward, leaning into him, making Dean chase you with his tongue.

Dean shoves two fingers inside you, as delicate in this as he is in all things, but then he knocks your knees wider, spreads your legs, and he twists and thrusts and curls his tongue around your clit, rubbing it with wide, flat strokes. His fingers piston in and out of you with wet, thick sounds and you come shortly after Dean takes your clit between his lips, pressing hard. Your hips stutter against his mouth as you crumple against Sam, limp and boneless and gasping for breath, and he pushes you forward until you can collapse on the bed. Sam lays down beside you, half his body covering yours, one hand propping him up so he can watch the other hand tease the red lips of your cunt, circling your clit and back down to spread your slick all over you, his fingers shiny with it.

You can hear Dean fumbling at his clothing, cursing when one foot gets caught in the ankle of his jeans and he has to hop around to get out of them, but Sam’s panting in your ear, _can smell how turned on you are, fuck jessie, don’t you know how much we want you._

You don't know. That's the problem: you've no fucking idea.

You need more than just Sam’s fingers circling your clit for a second orgasm, but when Sam pulls way, the coldness along your side leaves you grasping for contact. 

“Move,” Sam rasps, and you push yourself into the center of the bed, your head lying on the pillow. “Want you to watch me finger Dean open, watch me fuck him.”

__Dean’s naked now, cock curving up toward his belly, lube in hand. He’s always been a regular boy scout._ _

__Sam pushes Dean onto the bed before he slicks up his fingers, arranges him over you on his hands and knees. You can’t see Sam circle Dean’s hole, can’t see his fingers slide in to the second knuckle, but Dean’s just as beautiful, his breath catching in his throat, a little crease forming between his eyebrows, and for a second, you are angry at yourself for what you’ve gotten yourself into, how one Winchester brother betrayed you and all it’s made you do is fall harder for the other one. Dean captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, rocking with Sam’s momentum._ _

__Sam keeps doing whatever he’s doing until Dean’s a shuddering mess, until he’s not even kissing you anymore, just groaning against your mouth, every thrust of Sam’s fingers sending him forward so his cock smears across the crease of your thigh, leaving a sticky-wet mess._ _

“Jesus, Sam,” he says, and you can feel the rasp of his lips against you as he talks, rough skin against your cheek. 

"Now?" Sam says.

"I - yeah," Dean says, then, "Please," like the word is a hook torn straight up from his navel.

__You know the moment Sam pushes into his brother, you can see Dean’s eyes fly open, the half-gasp caught in his throat, the bunch of his muscles under your hands. Just over Dean’s shoulder, you can see Sam, his hair damp at the roots, his hips flexing as he slowly pushes in._ _

__Then Sam bottoms out, and you sneak a hand underneath to feel Sam’s balls resting against Dean. Sam hisses, drawing out and thrusting back in. Dean’s pushed against you, his cock leaking all over your stomach. The smell of him, of all of you, is heady and ripe._ _

“Fuck,” you say, no more than a whisper, the word so inadequate but it's all you have to offer. Dean's pressed against your front, arms trembling as he tries not to flatten you, but the way your hands slide through the sweat on the back of his neck, clutching his face to yours, is better than anything you thought possible. The way he moans and shudders into you, you can almost believe you're the one fucking him, and your eyes meet Sam's over Dean's shoulder. His face is flushed, mouth open, chest heaving. He is beautiful. They both are. One hand on the back of Dean's neck, and the other moving to cover Sam's large palm where it grips Dean's hip, you feel the rocking motion of your boys over the top of you.

Dean's muttering cursewords as Sam’s cock moves inside him, and you want someone to touch you, so bad, but you don't want to disturb the balance of what's happening. Sweat slides over your body, and all three of you are smooth with it, a mess of sweat and come, skin slapping together with harsh, muted sounds. You know you’re being loud, your harsh breathing and Dean’s grunts and Sam’s other hand against the headboard, the bed rocking with the three of you entwined together on top of the sheets.

When Sam's close, he lets the both of you know by slowing down, and leaning over to put his mouth by Dean's ear. You could lunge up to kiss him, if you wanted, but you don't, as that seems like a recipe for someone's head to get bruised; you are still unsure of the machinations of this thing. Both physically and otherwise.

"Don't come," he tells Dean. His eyes are linked with yours, and there is a bit of the unknown in him, now, something you haven't seen before. His eyes are dark like pitch, pupils blown. He looks like the kind of prophet an army would follow into battle; wild and hungry and insane with it. "Do you think you can fuck Jess, too? Just for me? I want to see it, Dean, please."

He doesn't blink, his voice like a snake charmer's.

"Can he, Jess? Will you have us?"

Oh, but you had damned yourself a long time ago, when you looked at that floppy hair and that loose smile, and you decided you would follow that boy anywhere he would lead you.

You grip the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck and bring his mouth back to yours, and Sam comes back to life, thrusting so hard into Dean your teeth clack together. You both groan. It feels like there's a yawning mouth just beneath your stomach, eating you from the inside out, until you are nothing but a gaping maw of need.

Sam comes soon after that, fingers seizing where one hand still holds yours. He makes a low, animal sound that speaks to some dark part of you, recently unburied.

He slides to the side so you are shoulder to shoulder. Dean collapses, turning into a dead weight. He is heavy, but you like it. Sam reaches again for your hand where your fingers had come undone, and you stare for at each other for a bare second, Dean's face tucked into the curve of your neck, his open-mouthed breathing damp against your skin.

Sam rolls toward you, still holding your hand against his chest. He moves with such hesitant purpose, it seems to be in slow motion. You know what he is going to do well before he leans forward and kisses you, close-mouthed. Then he lays back so his head is again on the other pillow.

"Can he?" he says again. Dean is still hard, cock wet where it's pressed just below your hip, where the crease of your thigh begins.

You cannot answer; your mouth is dry, tongue stuck in your throat. Sweat is starting to cool, but you are still burning from the inside out. Dean draws back and looks at you. His eyes flick around your face, trying to decipher whatever he finds there.

You feel your stomach drop like vertigo, and suddenly you feel your future looming before you, the weight of the feelings you may one day carry for this boy.

You gather your elbows underneath you and struggle to sit up, forcing Dean to rear back. Unsure, he goes to get off the bed, but you grab his upper arm to keep him straddling you. You like him close.

You can feel Sam watching you. "Kiss me," you say, softly, so it's just a moment between you and Dean.

Dean's hands frame your face, pushing your hair out of the way. For the first time, you think of what you must look like, face red, hair sticking to your forehead, but with Dean smiling oh-so-gently, you try not to care.

He ducks his face to yours. With his hands still on both sides of you, your world is subsumed by Dean. You’re so close together, Dean’s arms wrapping right around the back of your shoulders while you climb into his lap, your noses knocking so hard together the bones grind. You don’t care. Dean’s breathing hard, little puffs of air over your face, while you can’t stop the little undulating sounds coming out of your mouth, little breathy sighs that escape each time you break apart for air. “D’ya wanna ride him, Jess?” Sam says. You hadn’t forgotten he was there, not quite, but the sound of his voice is enough to shock you out of whatever trance you had fallen into. Sam comes closer, chest a hair’s breath from your back. “Yeah,” you say, rough. “I do.” One little push is all it takes to manipulate Dean into falling down on the bed, into the space you used to occupy. His dick flops upward, making a slick slapping sound against his belly. 

You slide down onto Dean like you’re glazed with honey. You’ve already come once, so you ride him steady, enjoying the treacle-slow build of it, the crazed look in Dean’s eye.

Sam’s hands seem everywhere at once: scratching across a nipple, rubbing your clit, boosting your thighs when they shake. You cry out when he twists your hair into a rope, pulling your head so your back arches and he can kiss your neck so viciously you feel his teeth.

You want this to last forever, sweat stinging your eyes, the sweet sharp pain of Sam holding you open as Dean thrusts, but your skin’s tightening and when Sam whispers _fuck jess i’ve missed this, missed you._ , you couldn’t hold back even if you tried. Your arm comes up to grip Sam around the neck and crush him to you as you grind out your orgasm, toes curling as you gasp helplessly into Sam’s hair, and Sam makes a thick, wrecked sound like a sob.

You try to keep your eyes open, but you're a mess, a mess, a mess for them -

– and Dean’s coming, bucking up into you, making you hiss. His eyes are open, watching the picture you and Sam make. You’re almost afraid to look over at Sam, see what his eyes look like when he’s watching his brother come. When you lift off Dean, your boyfriend’s brother’s come starts leaking out of your pussy. You don’t feel as much as you thought you would - no guilt, no recriminations. There is a hard knot settled heavy in your belly, but you don’t know if that’s because of what’s happening, or if that’s how you’re always going to be now.

You lean back into Sam, arm still around him, and wait for the world to start burning.

“Fuck,” Sam says from where his face is buried in your neck and really, you couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

////

Dean’s shadow falls over you, illuminated from behind by the bathroom light.

“Don’t go, Jessie,” he says, interrupting your gentle attempts to detangle yourself from Sam. He’s got one hand in your hair, and the other stretched over your stomach, his palm resting in the dip of your hipbone. He always did like to cuddle.

You should never have let it get this far, you know this thing with you and Sam and Dean – whatever it is – isn’t healthy, you know that you’re the outsider, but then Dean’s licking your cunt clean, his tongue inside you until you come again, your thighs clenching around his head, and yeah. Okay. You’re not going anywhere just yet.


End file.
